


The Sweetest Fruit You Can Bear

by Eris (dwarrowkings)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Female Presenting Crowley, M/M, Oral Sex, Pegging, Praise Kink, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:56:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwarrowkings/pseuds/Eris
Summary: Aziraphale asks for Nanny Ashtoreth to peg him. He gets more than he asked for.Featuring: some spanking, pegging, female presenting Crowley (in the form of Nanny Ashtoreth) and a bunch of feelings.





	The Sweetest Fruit You Can Bear

**Author's Note:**

> Since Crowley is female-presenting in the entire fic, I made the decision to use "she/her" pronouns throughout. It is a thing that is implied that Aziraphale and Crowley talk about before the scene, but they do not explicitly talk about in the fic. Maybe that's laziness on my part. This fic is marked F/M because of this. It is also marked as M/M as generally, Crowley is assumed to be male-presenting. Genders are hard y'all, and my heart tells me that Crowley doesn't have only one. 
> 
> In addition, I made the choice for Aziraphale not to actually make a decision about his genital situation until specifically asked about it, and then lets Crowley decide for him. This is also discussed beforehand, but not mentioned in the fic. That one is part stylistic choice, and part laziness. That's on me. 
> 
> If any corrections or additional tags need to be added, please let me know!
> 
> Title is from the song HVY MTL DRMR by Des Rocks:  
_Rage like Eve in the garden_  
_Oh, the sweetest fruit you can bear_  
_When the riptide is dragging you under_  
_Are you gonna drown?_  


“Well now, isn’t that just a sight?” Her voice is gentle in a way that he’s never heard Crowley’s. Maybe it’s the Scottish lilt, or the higher pitch, but it makes him shudder.

Before, he’d always overheard it on the other side of doors, or across the hall; never up close, and most certainly never while he was in bed. He pushes his face into the quilt, but he can’t escape the knowledge that he’s laid bare.

He can feel the first brush of something against the back of his naked thigh, and at first he thinks it’s her fingers. He shudders in anticipation; lust is a fire in the field of his body, consuming the whole thing in a flash.

The sting of the riding crop captivates him and he sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. The heat of it is a firebreak across the back of his thighs. He can feel a small bubble of pleasure forming in his brain, threatening to erase everything else. He’s got control of it, for now, but it’s only a matter of time.

“Are you going to be good, my darling?” The endearment curls into his stomach; comforting and smoldering all at once. He can feel the scrape of her nails over his shoulder, and he leans into the touch.

“Yes, Nanny.” He’s proud that his voice doesn’t shake, but she tsks and hits him again. He doesn’t jerk this time, but it’s a close thing. The bubble at the top of his head starts to expand; the pleasure starts to overwhelm his thoughts.

“How many is that, love?” She asks. Her voice brooks no argument, but isn’t unkind. Her nails score down his shoulder blade. He’s thankful for the way it centers him in his body before he has to answer her question.

“Two, madam.” His voice has gone a little breathy, even to his own ears.

“And how many more?” It isn’t a question, not really, but he has to answer.

“As many as you think proper, madam.” His voice quavers, once, on the last word. The swat this time isn’t as hard as the first two, and he only jerks a little. The fourth and fifth come quick as anything, and it isn’t long before he’s lost count, cresting a wave of heat and pain and desire as the bubble pops.

Then she stops.

He lifts his head, turning to look at her. Her color is high, pink brushed liberally across her cheekbones. Her mouth is a thin dark slash across the bottom of her face, the color of the roses Crowley favors.

_Baccara,_ he thinks, nonsensically. They’re the color of Baccara roses, a deep wine dark red that he’d helped invent. Trying to please Crowley.

Looking at the color of her mouth now, he wants to dive into it and never come back up for air. She looks obscene, wrecked already, and all she’s done is whack him a little.

There’s a tense, fraught moment where he looks at his own face, reflected back at him in her glasses, before he turns away again.

She pats him on the flank, careful of the welts she’s raised. She scrapes a feather light fingernail across the edge of one of the welts. Aziraphale jerks and shivers and she runs firmer fingertips along the warmed flesh.

“Very good.” Her voice is far from unaffected, and it’s a hot rush in his belly. This isn’t quite how he’d imagined it; it’s so much better.

He hears the flick of a cap, and a slick sound, and then her hands are on the back of his thighs, warm and firm. She presses gently, massaging his lightly abused flesh, and a desperate noise worms its way out of the back of his throat.

“What is it, darling?” Her hands haven’t left his skin, but they also aren’t moving any longer. They’re close, so close to where he wants them. He keens again, and wills his mouth to move.

“Feels good, Nanny,” he says. He can almost feel the shift in her mood, like someone changed the lighting in the room.

“Is that what you’re after,” she asks, her voice dark, “feeling good?” And well, yes.

“I...” he starts, knowing it’s the wrong answer.

She waits. Aziraphale swallows. He takes a deep breath, accepts his fate.

“Yes,” he breathes. It almost feels like a weight being lifted, if he weren’t weighed down by the dread of knowing he’s wrong. It feels like being cracked in half, one half floating and the other sinking. And here he is, strung taught between the two halves and trying to keep them together.

Nanny Ashtoreth waits. One breath, two.

“That’s very good, I like your honesty.” He feels his heart stutter and trip at her words. Something like pride wells in his chest. She runs her hands up the back of his thighs, thumbs meeting at the juncture to spread him apart, just a little. He can feel her hovering, and the knowledge that she could do anything has him tense with anticipation.

She places a small kiss to the dip of his spine, just above the curve of his ass. A gentle press of lips, a ghost of hot breath, and she’s gone. He shivers, the memory of her breath burning his skin like a brand.

He hears rustling, and relishes not knowing what’s coming next.

When she comes back to the bed, he hasn’t moved, and she seems pleased, stroking his hair with one hand.

“Now, my darling, I have a reward for being so good for me earlier.” Her voice is sugar and steel. He makes an interested noise, and she continues. “But I’m going to need you to scootch down a tick.”

She sits down at the head of the bed, and for the first time he realizes that she’s naked. Was she naked before? Was that the rustling? Ultimately it doesn’t matter beyond the thwarted desire to watch her undress, to watch her come undone.

He hadn’t particularly wondered what was under the prim collar and crisp lines of her jacket, but he’d never imagined it was this - broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and bare thighs for miles.

He scoots down, and she plumps a couple of the pillows he hasn’t been using behind her back before splaying her legs apart. There’s something just outside his field of vision on the other side of her that he can’t quite make out, but he isn’t concerned with it just yet.

She pats between her legs on the bed and he scrambles closer, unable to hide his eagerness. This close, he can smell her, earthy and hot, and his mouth waters.

She shifts, and hooks her leg over his shoulder, pressing her heel into the dip of his spine. He can feel himself lean into it, arching up and waiting for direction.

“Oh, yes,” she says. Her hips hitch forward, bracing her heel against his spine. She spreads her other leg wider, hanging her calf off the side of the bed. “You’re going to help me.” Her tone zings along his spine like electricity.

“Please,” he whispers, kissing the soft skin on the inside of her thigh. He licks his lips, and steals another kiss, this time creeping higher.

She huffs out a laugh, and curls her fingers through the hair on the top of his head, gripping hard enough to let him know to follow her when she moves it back, but not quite hard enough to hurt.

With her other hand, she grabs the thing he couldn’t quite see before. It’s a double ended dildo, sharply curved and the color of her lipstick. He feels stricken. He knew it was coming. He asked for this. It is, however, a sharp moment of clarity in which he realizes that he had no idea what he was really asking for.

"I want you to spread me open," she says. Her voice is husky and deep, almost slipping down into a lower register. The sound makes him desperate for the facade to slip, for the fantasy to be over.

He shifts on his elbows, uncurling his arm out from under him. She lets go of his hair, and grabs his wrist, pulling his arm forward, and pushing her pelvis into his hand. She grinds into his palm, biting her lip to hold back what he hopes is a moan. Two quick rolls of her hips, three, and she’s pushing his hand down. He drags his fingers along the seam of her, parting her open, but not quite pushing inside.

“So polite,” she praises, “for that, you get a reward.” She unwraps her fingers from around his wrist, and pushes them into his hair once again. She yanks, and he comes with her, opening his mouth in anticipation. She uses it to her advantage, and grinds against his open mouth like she’d done against his hand. His tongue darts out to taste her and she groans and pulls on his hair.

He eats her out like this, tongue stroking inside her, holding his breath just to get more of a taste. He pulls back, to take a handful of breaths that smell and taste of her, but once he’s got enough air, he gets right back to it. He licks at her, one long, deliberate stroke, collecting all of her wetness on his tongue, and savoring it. Her fingers tighten almost painfully in his hair.

He pushes his tongue into her cunt again and she grinds on his face, rubbing her clit on Aziraphale’s nose. “Oh!” she almost yelps, and she sounds overwhelmed, “fuck.” Aziraphale holds his breath, knowing that she’s about to come, and keeps fucking her with his tongue.

Nanny hums, and says, “Just like that, keep doing that.” He can feel her clamp down around his tongue, orgasm shaking her entire body. He groans, and she cries out. She starts shaking again and he’s not sure whether she’s coming for a second time or if she is still shaking from the first.

He can’t feel how wet his face is, but he imagines he’s covered in her. He loves the thought. He looks up at her through his lashes, watching her come apart on his tongue for far longer than is humanly possible. Her hips hitch one last time, the last vestiges of her orgasm fading. She collapses back onto the pillows. He keeps his face down, uncertain of where she wants him next. He contents himself with the fact that all he can smell and taste is her.

“That’s enough,” she says after a minute. She loosens her grip on his hair, He licks her one last time, tongue pressing against her clit, and he satisfies himself with her hitched breath, her come cooling on his chin. Nanny Ashtoreth strokes down the side of his face, and curls her perfectly manicured fingers around the bottom of his chin.

She swipes at his wet bottom lip with her thumb, and then presses it inside his mouth. He sucks on it greedily, laves at the come on her thumb with his tongue.

“Now,” she says, and his body stills, waiting for his marching orders. She pulls her hand away from his mouth. “Your hand again,” and he dutifully slides his fingers over her again, holding her open. Finally, finally, she brings the dildo in her other hand up, and presses the shorter end inside. He feels it slide against his fingers before it’s swallowed up, slick and obscene.

“Please,” he begs. He can’t look away from the jut of the fake cock right in his face, the way it curves down, and slips inside her. “Please, Nanny.” He licks his lips, tasting her on his mouth again, and he can’t get enough of it. He wants her to fuck his mouth. He wants to taste her when he slides his throat around her cock.

“So pretty when you beg, love. But you haven’t asked for anything yet.” He has; he asked before they started this, but he didn't know to ask for this. His brain scrambles for the words, but his mouth is already ahead of him.

“Can I suck your cock, Nanny?” he curls his fingers around the head, tugging it down slightly, toward his open mouth. She gasps, and thrusts her hips, pushing the fake dick towards his slick, waiting mouth. Her fingers clench in the coverlet beside her hips for a minute before she answers.

“Yes, darling.” She unclenches her fingers from the blanket, and tugs at the hair on the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Be a good boy for me now.” Aziraphale whimpers, mouth still open, begging, straining against the hold on his hair with one goal in mind.

She lets go, and he sinks his mouth down in one easy glide. He holds it there and really lets himself feel the rapture of her filling his mouth like this. He savors the details before he forgets to: the stretch of his jaw, short pants of breath through his nose, the salty sharp smell of her skin, torturously close but out of reach. He slides his tongue against the warming silicone in his mouth, sliding his tongue down to see if he can get another desperate taste of her.

“Ah ah ah,” she tuts, pulling lightly on his hair. He eases off and looks up at her, mouthing at the molded head. He puts all the fire he can muster behind his eyes, centuries of want burning and staining his lips and cheeks red.

“Nanny,” he murmurs, kissing down along the side, desperate for all the contact he can get.

“You did so well.” The praise fills up his chest like an overflowing cup. “Just a little more.”

“Yes,” he breathes, just before she thrusts the cock into his mouth in earnest. Her hand curls gently around the back of his skull, sweetly guiding him how she wants him. He opens his mouth wider, and lets her push farther inside. With every thrust, he feels more and more focused on only this. His world is narrowed to the push of her dick in his mouth, each deeper than the last, giving Aziraphale time to adjust that he doesn’t need. He moans around every one, unable to break her hold on his hair to push forward himself, torn between being content in being used and wanting to take more than he’s given.

“So eager.” The praise touches something inside him - something he didn’t know was cold - and makes it burn. “So good for me.” He feels a well of desperation open up under the heat threatening to swallow him. He squeezes his eyes shut, and lets her fuck his mouth for a moment, trying to center himself.

After a couple of thrusts, she stops and pulls out of his mouth.

“Oh, darling.” The gentle tone of her voice is so unlike the image of her, so much closer to reality. It makes his eyes water to think that he asked for this version of Crowley, when it's the similarities to the real thing that really get to him. He can’t look up at her face, ashamed of the position he’s put them both in. He presses his face to her thigh instead.

When he pulls back her hand is soft, fingers slipping through his hair. He can’t help but look at her now, flushed pink and clenching around the dildo, moving with small, hitching movements.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice thick. He swallows and his mouth feels empty. Nanny’s scratches her nails over his scalp, as if considering. He still hasn’t looked at her face.

“I see,” she says, and then hums. He can’t look at her face. He focuses on her thigh instead, lightly flushed but still pale and strikingly thin. “Too much.” Aziraphale makes a noise of protest but she shushes him. “A short break can hardly hurt, my dear.” She brushes her thumb across his cheekbone and tilts his face up to look at her. “Just a moment.”

She shifts on the bed, slithering down, so their bodies are almost level. She wraps her arm around his shoulders, and presses a small kiss to the top of his head. He pushes his face into her chest, comfortingly familiar for it being almost entirely new territory. He focuses on the heat of her hand, the rise and fall of her breath. She kisses across his forehead, down the side of his face. Soon, he’s calmed enough to seek her out, to press his mouth against hers and drown again.

Her hands buoy him up, petting across his shoulders, his hair. He sighs, content to laze in the newly gentle wash of her affection. “That’s more like it,” she soothes against his mouth. He imagines what he’d see in a mirror: her dark lipstick smeared across his face, the same color as the fake cock pressed inside her. There’d be gentle kisses on his forehead, where she kissed him sweetly, darkening into more prominent marks across his cheeks, and across his mouth - the winedark press staining his lips and making him look outlandish, obscene. The thought shouldn’t make him shiver, wearing her makeup, but he likes the thought of her marking him up, laying claim. Cracking him open and making something new from the pieces.

He almost wishes that the dildo could leave marks on his skin too, but he knows that the memory of her fucking his mouth is more than enough.

She licks the corner of his mouth, sharp and clever, and he whimpers heat arcing through him again like a flashfire. “There you are,” she says, and Aziraphale smiles against her mouth. They kiss some more, messy and perfect, until Aziraphale wants to crawl inside of her skin and build a home there.

Nanny runs her hands down his back, comforting and arousing all at once. She splays a proprietary hand on his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. He presses against her, feeling the head of the dildo press into his stomach.

“Aziraphale,” she says, amused and questioning all at once. It’s the first time she’s said his name since they started, and it’s doing things to his insides. “Were you planning on making an effort?” Of all the things they’ve done already, this is the thought that makes him flush.

“I… uh,” he stammers, “didn’t want to assume.” He can hear his voice edge up, like a question, like panic. Her mouth a wicked curve, she reels him in closer, her hands grope at his ass.

“How courteous of you, sweeting,” she says, only slightly sardonic. He looks into her face, trying to read her expression behind her glasses. The contrast of the color in her cheeks, the smear of lipstick across her mouth, and the shiny black of her glasses drives a wedge into Aziraphale’s chest.

He reaches up with one hand, and brushes his thumb on the delicate skin under her eye. “May I?” he asks, trailing off before he asks the question properly. She lifts one of her hands off his ass and grabs his wrist. She strokes her thumb in the palm for a second, before setting his fingertips along the very top edge of her glasses. He pinches the earpiece between his fingers and she tilts her head back to pull the frames away from her face, her hand still on his wrist. He gets caught in the molten tide of her half closed eyes, vulnerable and aching, before he shifts to put the frames on the table beside the bed.

When he looks back at her face, she’s smiling at him again, the familiar yellow-gold edging out the whites. He can see the crinkle of her eyes when she smiles. Watching her whole face change with her expressions feels far more intimate than anything they’ve done so far. He definitely feels more naked without the glass between them.

“Now, my dear,” she says, her eyes softening at the endearment, “You’ve given me quite the choice, haven’t you?” Her tone is wicked, but it’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear. “Do I want you to come around my fingers or on them?” She taps her fingers at his pulse point. He tries desperately not to groan. His mouth feels swollen from kissing, his jaw aching. He works it silently, trying not to push her in one direction or the other. He’d given this choice to her, before this all started, and he’s still giving it to her.

“On them, I think.” Nanny decides. She taps her fingers on his shoulder - a small comfort, a small intimacy. A reminder that what they have doesn’t begin or end with what they have here.

He can feel the slight furrow in his brow, trying to imagine how it would feel. He imagines the blood flow first, how it’d change, then the new nerve endings - the current arrangement flat and devoid of any - then the heft of it between his thighs. Before he is really ready, he can feel the throb and pulse of it, pressed against Nanny’s thigh. Her hand leaves his wrist, the other still kneading the flesh of his lower buttock, and reaches for the penis he just imagined. For her.

She kisses him again, dipping her tongue inside his mouth as she strokes her fingers lightly, teasingly around the head of his cock.

“Very nice.” She runs her palm over the length, not quite wrapping her hand around it, but almost. Close enough. He feels desperate for it- for anything. Now that his desire has a focal point, he wants everything, _everything._

“Please,” he whines against her mouth.

“Yes,” she says. The hand that’s still on his ass tightens, and Aziraphale hopes that it leaves a mark. Nanny was here, it would shout, but only Aziraphale would know.

“Please,” he begs again, pushing his ass into her hand, shamelessly whiny and begging for attention.

“Are you ready for me,” she asks, and he wants to say ‘yes’ over and over, but he knows he isn’t. “Do you want to get yourself ready for me, you greedy little thing, or do you want me to do it for you?” The image of her kneeling behind him, his face pressed into his arms, and his ass pushed up as far as he can get it, his cock bobbing between his legs as she works him open on her long, long fingers hits him like a train.

He can’t get the answer out, but it isn’t like she doesn’t already know - this is what they talked about, one of the few things he’d been adamant about wanting, her opening him up and pushing inside.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, as if she’s just remembering. She lifts her other hand off his ass, and taps her cheek thoughtfully with her long, elegant fingers. The cool air on the skin where her hand used to be is more of a slap than even she could manage. “You wanted me to open you up slowly, didn’t you? Until you were begging for it, crying for want of my cock in you. And then again when you had it.”

“Yes,” he says finally, “yes, please.” His brain can only focus on their skin pressed together. He loves the sharp press of her against him, how all her edges fit against the softness of his body.

“Already begging, I see,” she teases.

“Just, ah,” he tries, “trying to get a wiggle on.” She smacks his ass, a sudden sharp sting that burns through his nerve endings and makes his cock bob.

“Okay, love,” she says, frank, “up, up.” He rolls away from her, sprawling on his back. She moves gingerly, obviously aware of every shift of her body as she leverages herself up onto her knees.

She straddles one of his thighs and grinds down, the silicone of the dildo cooler than the blistering heat of the rest of her. She leans forward, hitching her hips up, and kisses him again, deeper than before. She moans into the kisses, so he lets her take and take from his mouth. Gives until he has nothing else, and then gives a little more. She hums against his mouth - a low, happy sound - and he can’t help the push of his hips up. The hum ends on the squeak of a laugh.

“Greedy, greedy,” she says, but gives him what he wants: the smooth slide of her cock against his. “Luckily I'm greedy too,” she says, twisting her hips down in a punishing thrust against him. He yells, and almost unseats her with how hard he jerks into it.

When he dares to look at her face, he’s surprised to see that she looks triumphant instead of disappointed. Light crowns her head from the dying sunlight outside - a queen looking down at her conquest.

He stares at her - the sharp edge of her shoulders, the curve of her breasts, the smallest dip of her waist, and her patently narrow hips, and wants. He wants all of her, even the parts she didn’t lay out molecule by molecule until she was this, for him. Even, and maybe more especially, the parts he didn’t ask for.

Some of it must show in his eyes, his face, because her eyes lose all of the white around the iris. Her face is serious, and he knows that she’s trying to retain some semblance of control. For him.

Her voice is rough when she says “Over.” She eases off his thigh, kneeling over him to give him room to flip. He does, gratefully, thankful to hide away in the quilt, so she can’t see how much he needs her. So he can lose himself in the giving and the receiving of what he asked for.

His breath is hot on the underside of his arms, but he can’t unfold them. He pushes his weight back, pulling his knees under him so that he can lie there, suspended, waiting.

“That’s it,” she says. He hears the snick of the cap - another thing they’d agreed upon, a miracle he wouldn't have to think about or ever have to explain to upstairs, if they even cared anymore.

He feels her thumb first, dry and just pressing hot and present right where he wants her. He pushes back slightly, reveling in the slight burn of the press inside. She pulls away before he can press more of her into him. She leans down, and presses a kiss to the middle of his back. The flash of sense memory from earlier makes him sigh. He thinks the welts are gone - he was probably too distracted to keep them for very long - but he wishes he could still feel them. Could feel them every time she pushed in.

He’s expecting the coolness, but he still jolts like he’s been shocked when he feels her slick fingertip press against his asshole, worming its way closer, and then slipping inside. He wants this so much, it’s probably easier than it should have been, but it’s still only one finger. Immediately, she goes for the second - stretching him much faster than the typical human body should be able.

“Oh,” he says when he feels her fingers slide in past the second knuckle. He makes a keening noise, and tries to press his hips back into her hand. She smacks his ass with her other hand, a sharp reminder of who has control, to whom he'd handed these particular reins.

She curls her fingers around his hip and uses them to tug him back onto her other hand. He pushes into it, following her silent instruction. The only thought in his head is ‘Do as Nanny says’ over and over until it’s just static.

“Yes,” she hisses, the sibilant ‘s’ snaking its way around in his head, sweet and joyful. He knows that it only slips when she’s really distracted, or doing it on purpose. It doesn’t really matter why she’s doing it now; the match is lit, the candle is already aflame.

“Unh,” he grunts, wishing he could get more words out, “Hnnh,” a slightly more desperate grunt when she presses in again, vicious and unrelenting.

“Are you almost ready?” she asks, almost singsong. She stretches her fingers apart, a sweet, slow torture. A punishment he hasn’t earned yet. He tries to say yes, but he chokes on it. Nanny twists her fingers, and he chokes again.

“Yes,” he finally forces out, and it only takes a minor miracle to do so. Or it would, if he had the brain capacity for one. As it is, he isn't certain how he manages to get the words out it, but he does, and that’s all that matters to Nanny.

“Yes,” she croons, and pulls her fingers out of him. He’s desperate for what comes next but he’s still bereft at the loss of feeling her - any part of her - inside.

There’s a slick sound again, and he’s not sure how he can tell the difference, but he can. He knows she’s slicking up her cock for him. All he has to focus on is her hand on his hip and his cock wetting the underside of his stomach. His short-term patience is rewarded when she presses her cock against him. He pushes back into it, but she holds his hips still and thrusts her cock between his thighs. The head of her cock nudges coldly at the back of his balls, pressing along his perineum. The slick slide is a precursor to what he’s in for, but he relishes it all the same. Nanny presses along his back- thrusts her hips forward, before drawing back to do it again. After a couple of thrusts the desire for more takes over, and his mouth moves without his brain’s permission.

“Oh, please,” he moans. “Please, Nanny, just fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?” she asks, and it’s the same phrasing she’d used before, when they’d talked about it, but her tone is so different. Before, it had been considering, bordering on awe. This time it’s almost a punishment. It’s exactly what he wants.

“Yes.” He can feel the tears forming at the corner of his eyes. “Please.” He can feel the shift of her hips. “Yes!” He can feel her finally nudging the head of cock inside. The slick, cool press of it feels right. “Oh!” he hiccups. He gasps a couple of desperate breaths, feeling like he’s approaching the edge of a very tall cliff, and one small push will send him reeling.

She presses inside. Aziraphale plummets over the edge.

He’s awash in how it feels, the firm, smooth glide, so different from… Crowley. But it is Crowley. Aziraphale whines. Fingers grip his hips, pulling him back, and he goes.

He gives in. He takes it. He’s taken.

Pleasure lights up in his skull, and he can’t focus on anything except the push and pull inside him. The push of Nanny’s cock and the riptide realization that this is still Crowley.

A hand slides up his stomach, a warm glide that feels so fucking good. The arm hooks around his shoulder, and hauls him upward as if he were a pose-able doll - going wherever he’s told. The cock in his ass fucks deeper. Even though it’s impossible, it feels like it’s in his ribs, touching something in his chest. So deep it will never come out, inexorable and all-consuming. He writhes against it, trying to get more, trying to get away. His body is acting on instincts he isn’t sure it ever had. He isn’t sure if he likes it, but it feels so good he doesn’t care. Something eases in him, stretching and coiling like a sated serpent.

He can feel the space where his wings aren’t, pressed against the body behind him. They open in the space where they would be, basking in the warmth of a fire that isn’t there.

Teeth at his shoulder, hot breath on the back of his neck, and the wet, cooling slide of a tongue shocking the back of his ear. “God,” Aziraphale chokes, profane and wretched, wrung out of his chest. It’s too much now, but in the best way.

“Isn’t it a sin,” whispered into the skin behind his ear, “to take Her name in vain?” Aziraphale shudders, pleasure rolling through him.

“Y-yes.” Speaking coherent words is a minor miracle, but not one he’s capable of at the moment.

“That’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.” A hot kiss against his shoulder - a brand, a promise.

“Please,” he begs. “Please, please Cr-” he stops. Behind him, Crowley stops too. “Nanny?” He asks. The cock in his ass is still definitely fake, but he doesn’t want to presume.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley says, and fucks back into him. “It’s me.”

Aziraphale sobs at her confirmation. “Did you think we were different people?” Crowley asks. Aziraphale whines, tries to say no, yes, he doesn’t know. But he can’t get the words out. It doesn’t matter; Crowley keeps fucking him, relentless and perfect. She reaches down and wraps her fingers around his cock.

“That’s it,” she urges, “come for me.” She squeezes her fingers, not quite stroking, but a close enough approximation.

His orgasm takes him by surprise, a sudden hot rush, spreading over Crowley’s fist. His body tries to double over, away from Crowley’s chest, but he’s caught by the arm holding him up. Breath heaves out of his chest, and he can feel sweat at his hairline. Crowley knows just how to wring whatever reaction she wants from his body.

Crowley brushes her knuckles against his face, gentle and too open. Aziraphale shakes, overcome as Crowley eases him down gently. She arranges his body comfortably on the bed, and splays over his back.

“Do you want more,” Crowley asks, her voice gentle. She touches his shoulder, slides her fingers over his arm, and gently squeezes Aziraphale’s forearm before sliding their fingers together.

No, “Yes.” Aziraphale’s voice is a hoarse whisper. It feels more intimate than confession, guiltier too.

“Greed is one of the deadly ones,” Crowley says, huffing a laugh. “Lust too.”

“And pride,” Aziraphale says. He tries for pointed, but it lands somewhere left of the mark.

“No pride here,” Crowley says. She rolls her hips languidly, and it shouldn’t feel good, it should be too much. It is too much, but it feels fucking glorious. “Just confidence.” She squeezes her fingers around his. That hurts too, but it also feels good.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hums, and languidly pushes back into her thrusts. “Just like that.”

“That’s it, love,” Crowley croons, kissing along his shoulder. “Just ask for it. Anything you want. Everything I have. It’s yours already.”

“Love you,” Aziraphale slurs, skin still buzzing with pleasure. It’s all he can do to say the words.

“I love you too,” Crowley says, small and reverent like a prayer.

Aziraphale hums. The sweet slide is beginning to feel like a burn, and instead of making it feel good, he revels in the hurt for a minute. Then says “That’s probably enough, Crowley.” She uncurls her fingers from around his, and pats his hand.

“Sure, angel,” and stops. She carefully pulls out, and there’s the slick sound of her pulling the dildo out of her as well. It thumps on the floor, and Aziraphale huffs, affronted at the way she treats her toys and his floor but too content to do anything about it.

She rolls over to him again, pressed close to his back. Her skin is hot, but she isn’t sweaty. It feels good, the heat of her seeping into his bones. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, and it feels right.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but it’s obvious she wants to. Her question hangs in the air, hazy and indecipherable, until she blurts it out. “Was that ok?”

Aziraphale’s brain takes a second to process what she’s asking. She hastily fills the silence instead of waiting for him to catch up. “I know that we got kind of off script, and some of that wasn’t what we agreed on -” before she can continue backtracking, Aziraphale shifts, and turns to look her in the face.

“Crowley, it was perfect. Much better than I’d hoped. It wasn’t some… fantasy version of you, like I’d been imagining. It was you and it always was.”

“Oh.” She bites her lip, almost pouting. “You could have said.” She seems kind of cross about it.

Aziraphale presses a kiss to her mouth. He loves the way she smiles when he does. “I won’t make that mistake a second time. An elephant never forgets.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, holding back a laugh. Her eyes crinkle with amusement. “You’re not an elephant.”

“Oh, of course not, but you know what I mean.” He waves his hand at her, exaggerating the movement of his eyebrows just for her.

“I do.” Crowley agrees. And it’s an echo of words said before, in a thousand different ways, but on one day in particular in the spring, in a park, with a nightingale singing up in a tree. No priest, no bells, just their friends and love promised forever. “I do.” She says again, and before, and after.

**Author's Note:**

> Sweeting:   
_noun_  
1.an apple of a sweet-flavored variety.  
2.ARCHAIC: darling.
> 
> Again, the most thanks to sosobriquet, my beloved, who held both my hands during this and gave me idea after idea, and then had some ideas of her own. Also, shout out to the very patient ghoat_recon, who listened to me type a lot (its been a busy couple of weeks y'all). Also sinstralpride, who helped me not be a comma abuser, and made me change some of my weirder similes. They're the best, and I'm terrible at hyperlinks. :*


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